


When the Veil Falls Away

by everybreathagift



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Hannibal, Dark Will Graham, Hate Sex, M/M, Post S3, Rough Sex, Top Will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5182859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreathagift/pseuds/everybreathagift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has thoughts on why it's always like this with Hannibal. Hannibal gives Will what he needs- mostly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have other prompts to write but this hit me and came out like word vomit. It's angsty bullshit and I'm sorry. Forgive any errors.

He’s too sober. He’s too much like himself for this and that’s why he shreds Hannibal’s overpriced shirt and intentionally spills whiskey on his perfectly tailored slacks. Why he won’t kiss Hannibal until his lips are swollen sticky and his heart pounds. 

And isn’t it just always like this when he’s too sober and too aware? Isn’t Hannibal always so yielding and _loving_ and arching into every bite and punch and slap and hateful kick to the ribs that Will gives him? 

And isn’t Will always so fucking spiteful, like the child who ignored his father and threw the fish back anyway?

No. No, he’s not. Because Hannibal is always so yielding and _loving_ and arching into every sweet whisper and brush of lips and easy press of fingers that Will gives him.

Because Will could give him anything and Hannibal would just take because that’s what Hannibal does. He takes and fucking takes and fucking takes and givesgivesgives. Gives Will anything and everything and it’s Will’s turn to fucking take.

Will’s hard and aching with pain and anger and he wants to crawl inside Hannibal and obliterate him until there’s nothing left but sobs of Will’s name before he drowns in the blackness that Will keeps in his heart.

Teeth grit and inhuman stillness is what Will gets when he pushes inside, spit slick cock and fingers full of silver hair. Hannibal stares and won’t make a sound, no, of course he won’t, not until he deciphers and discovers exactly what Will wants tonight, be it his silence or his screams. Because Hannibal _always_ gives Will what he wants.

Sometimes, Will breathes his name like a prayer and it makes Hannibal come. Sometimes, Will draws blood with his teeth and that makes Hannibal come, too.

And maybe that’s why everything hurts. Why everything _has_ to hurt. Why he punches Hannibal’s obscene mouth and then licks the blood from it. Why he has to feel flesh tear beneath his nails before he can tell him he doesn’t hate him.

Because all Hannibal says is ‘I love you’ and all Will can say is ‘I don’t hate you.’

He doesn’t add _today_ because some words are worse than others but it’s true. He might hate him tomorrow, like he hated him three days ago. When Abigail’s face is present and sitting right next to his morals, both in a neat little box he never opens unless he’s sober. Like he hates him today.

“Stay with me,” Hannibal asks and it’s always a request. Never a demand. Always careful and Will hates that he hates it. 

But the truth of it is that if Will decided this moment that he wanted to retreat into his eternally fucked up head, Hannibal would let him. If he wanted to run and start a new life elsewhere, one where he could pretend to be normal, like he had with the woman whose name he won’t say and a sweet boy he refuses to remember, Hannibal would let him. 

And maybe that’s the problem, damn him, is that Hannibal would _let_ him when all Will really wants and doesn’t want and needs is someone -Hannibal to _make_ him. 

“Make me love you,” Will doesn’t say. “Make me crave your existence beyond fucking and killing and running,” he doesn’t say that either because the request would be based on a filthy lie. 

“Stay with me, Will.”

And he’s so fucking calm and it makes Will sick. He couldn’t hit Will or claw Will, no, no, he has to be fucking gentle with Will. Like a China doll or paper house. Even when Will wraps his hands around Hannibal’s throat and squeezes until amber eyes become glassy and distant. Even then. Even after. 

Hannibal is pliant and disgustingly gorgeous as Will pushes, pulls, destroys and hates and _loves_ with nails in Hannibal’s hips and teeth bared like an animal. Hannibal moans and Will envisions pulling that sound from a throat slit wide and blood dulling the pitch.

“Hurt me, you son of a bitch,” Will growls, thrusting harder and feeling dizzy with the sunspots he sees in his eyes. 

“Hurt me back. Make me feel something besides this hate.” More words Will doesn’t say. 

And Hannibal, for all his pretty prose and philosophical bullshit doesn’t give him some line about teacups and fate because no, he’d never be that vengeful, _of course not,_ not now that he has Will. He just closes his too-attentive eyes and whispers, “I can’t.” 

Because Hannibal doesn’t _always_ give Will what he wants.

So, yeah, maybe he can’t, but Will can, and Will does, with teeth and claws and vile words he’ll kiss away when he’s finished another bottle of whiskey. 

“You never can, can you? Can’t give me what I need because you’ll never be what I need. You’ll never be everything.”

Hannibal doesn’t cry, no, because Hannibal _doesn’t_ cry, but he’s not hard anymore and Will wants to feel triumphant about that. He doesn’t. So he pushes harder, rips open old wounds on Hannibal’s permanently scarred heart with words of _you’ll die alone because I’ll find someone that can make me happy_ and _think of how Mischa would hate you if she had survived you_ and _no one survives you because you’re a hateful plague that fills lungs and minds and souls._

And later, when he’s too drunk to stand and forgiving eyes are trained on him, it’ll be words of _I’m sorry I’m such a hateful plague that fills lungs and minds and souls_ and _Mischa would be so proud to see how strong you are_ and _I could never be happy without you because you’re everything._

Hannibal doesn’t come when Will does and Will wonders if he’s run out of forgiveness. Wonders if he’s finally, _finally_ , pushed too far and cut too deep to be stitched back up again by Hannibal’s gentleness that he hates and loves so much. 

And he doesn’t feel guilty when Hannibal hobbles to the shower and he thinks, maybe, yeah, he’s broken. He can’t be fixed. Hannibal can’t fix him. Hannibal can fix everything but not him. 

Still, he follows the shattered pieces of Hannibal’s broken heart to the shower and doesn’t swallow back his disdain for something so sickeningly melodramatic and accurate. Intentionally stands out of Hannibal’s reach because he’s not _fucking finished._ He still hates. 

But maybe he won’t hate him tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More word vomit. There's something about these two...

Will doesn't hate him today. Hasn't hated him in many days, now, and he hates that. Even sober, even with a clear head, he doesn't hate. Will won't consider why because it fucking _hurts_ to consider why. 

Why his heart stumbles when Hannibal doesn't tell him good morning, like he used to, bringing Will aspirin and water and never minded that Will didn't say it back. 

Why he can't stop the thick swallow when Hannibal doesn't speak at the dinner table, like he used to, asking Will if he wanted to help with dessert no matter how many times Will's lip curled with disgust. 

Why his mind reels from Hannibal leaving the house without saying goodbye, like he used to, all but begging Will to join him at a fancy cafe or ridiculous museum or pointless play, even when Will ignored him entirely. 

All the gentleness that Will hates. Hated. Maybe he doesn't hate it anymore. Maybe he never really hated it at all.

And Will knows it's because Hannibal doesn't look at him like _that_ anymore. Doesn't level gazes with unwavering fucking kindness and adoration and _love_. No, now he looks past Will, through him, beyond all of Will's bullshit and hate and disdain. 

It's so fucking ridiculous, Will knows that, knows that he shouldn't miss little smiles and fond looks from this man that he hates- used to hate more days than not but he does. He wants to shake it from Hannibal, kiss his obscene mouth and fuck him raw and take his blood with nails and teeth. Wants to worship him for lifetimes with languid strokes and unending desire and breathe sweet words with truth and clarity.

Hannibal hasn't kissed him in days and Will hates that he misses it. Doesn't hate Hannibal but hates his absence.

So, yeah, he gets drunk again, he _always_ gets drunk again, and falls into Hannibal's lap, messy and exhausted and fucking _desperate_. Presses his lips to Hannibal's neck and doesn't scream when he's met with stillness and detachment. 

“Look at me like you used to,” Will says, rough words pleaded as he straddles and grinds and fucking _begs_. “Look at me like I'm the only thing that matters to you.” 

_Like you used to before I broke you and made you hate. Made you like me._ Will won't say it because it doesn't need to be said, it's branded into each other's skin. 

Hannibal doesn't yell, no, he wouldn't, not now or ever because he's still _polite_ , just looks at Will with dead eyes and a cold palm to Will's chest and says, “I can't.”

“You can, I know you can, you can do everything.”

Because Hannibal can do _everything_ , gives Will anything, soft words and gentle fingers and love and breath and life. Gives Will everything despite Will himself, hateful remarks and clawing fingers and hate and silence and death.

So he kisses harder, tries harder, _moves_ harder. Arches his back and presses down and wants to hate that he's so hard, he hurts, but he can't. Hannibal is hard, too, but it's not insistent or throbbing or driving his hips against Will like it used to. He's not gripping Will with slick fingers or breathy moans or aching cries and Will hates it. 

Hates it more than he's ever hated Hannibal, but Will doesn't hate that, either. 

Because he _wants_ to matter, has to matter, not to society or the people who thinks him dead, the friend who pushed him to breaking or the woman he once kissed and was called ‘unstable’ for it, but to Hannibal. Only Hannibal. 

But his eyes are still dead and his hands are still limp by his sides as Will unbuttons his slacks and Will hates it. 

So he begs with pretty words he fully means and promises of love he knows- hates that he wants to give. Because Hannibal is _everything_ and Will hates being _nothing_. 

“Touch me,” Will begs. _Remind me with your hands that I'm not meaningless_. 

Because being meaningless is worse than any death Will has ever mourned, worse than the box that holds memories of Abigail and Molly and his dogs that he never opens, even when he's sober, not anymore. 

But Hannibal doesn't, won't, _refuses_ with a blank stare and an easy slip from under Will to walk to the bedroom instead. Leaves Will broken and panting on the couch with heart wrenching desire and sadness and fucking pain. Not with his hate, though, no, not anymore, because that'd be too fucking _easy_.

So, he doesn't follow Hannibal to bed or let the scream rip his throat. Doesn't cry because his tears are meaningless, too, like him, like everything. 

Hannibal hates. Will made him hate. Will knows Hannibal hates but he doesn't run or hide or fight. Doesn't watch Hannibal as he sleeps to make sure he doesn't leave in the night. Doesn't push harder. Doesn't hate.

Because maybe Hannibal won't hate him tomorrow.


End file.
